


The Eagle Mountain

by SilverRaindemon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Teen!John, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRaindemon/pseuds/SilverRaindemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU This is a wild mix of Sherlock BBC and stories by a Russian writer, Maria Semenova (Viking/Slav fantasy). A teenager slave John saves the life of a seriously wounded Viking warrior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the Eagle Mountain. And don't profit from writing my stories, of course.
> 
> Concerning the ages of the characters: John is about seventeen, Sherlock around twenty, Lestrade is around 38, Mycroft the same.
> 
> Comments are very welcome!

John and the Eagle Mountain knew where the emerald floating ice rocks were born. Far-far away in the Western Sea there were islands covered with ice from head to toe. When the sea licked the islands' toes teasingly they laughed and chunks of ice split and then slid along the waves floating freely. Not many seamen were brave enough to come closer to the islands of ice, even less managed to return and tell about it. And the ice giants proudly ploughed the cold furious seas.

John has spent his whole short life on the island. He has never felt the polished wood of an oar in his hands, seen the stern faces of the ice giants rise from the mists over the board of a longship. He has only heard the tales of giants and Gods from other people.

This summer was the third John spent on the higher meadows. There were lots of good grass on these succulent meadows, the cows grew fat grazing there for the whole summer. The herds mixed freely and the shepherds didn't care much whose cow was where. Only when one month was left till the Winter Nights feast the cattle would be returned from the meadows to the settlement. This was the time when a good shepherd dog was what mattered, otherwise it was a nightmare for a shepherd to separate his herd from the others.

A lot of shepherds envied John. His dog was the best, swift, strong, no wolf a match for him. John called him Gentle, which was totally unsuitable for the dog from the point of view of almost everybody else. But John knew the real value of his dog. All the cows from his herd were always carefully gathered by Gentle, the dog had never been mistaken. John had refused to trade him to other shepherds for silver or new clothes although offered many times.

Gentle was one of dozens of puppies born on the lush mountain meadows. Being an especially curious one he managed to fall down from the rocks of the Eagle Mountain into the water and somehow stay alive. John heard him crying at the foot of the mountain where the puppy scrambled out of the water onto a cold rough stone. The boy was only ten then but he hadn't hesitated for a moment. The steep rocks of the Eagle Mountain brought fear to the hearts of even most of the adult shepherds but John only bit his lip decisively and began to climb down. Wind tore at his sandy locks and howled sadly. It took John almost half a day to get down and then back up with the puppy carefully bundled in his shirt. He almost slipped once which cost him a jagged scar on the left shoulder where ruthless stones bit through the tanned skin. John never told anyone about this, although conquering the Eagle Mountain was a real feat even for a grown-up man. He felt irresponsible as he had left the herd unattended for such a long time. Thankfully the cows were all there when he rolled over the edge clutching the fluffy wet ball to his chest.

Summer was slowly rolling to the dusk. John was watching the sea, deep blue eyes squinted against the wind. He dreamt of sailing to the ice islands or even further, someplace he couldn't even see from the pasture. Maybe Gregory the Brave's longship was anchored in the skerries over there. John had heard about the infamous warrior several months ago. Messengers from the konung came to the settlement telling someone had seen his sails at sea. They say Skjold the Merchant who lived at the top of the hill had been scared most of all. And John wasn't scared. He instantly wished Gregory's warship would moor to their shore and something interesting would happen at last.

"Nothing happens to me," John whispered to Gentle. The wolf-like dog only yawned, boasting pearly white fangs in the black mouth.

Yes, John wanted the Vikings to cast anchor somewhere near this shore. He would manage to find Gregory then, no doubt. And ask if he would take a runaway slave on board his longship.

John was born a slave and was supposed to remain one for his whole life. If he didn't manage to run away or buy himself out, that is. But usually only some skilled men like smiths were able to buy themselves out and John was only a shepherd. So he dreamt about Gregory the Brave on a proud warship. Although there wasn't any chance Gregory would show up here. Only those who were born among the skerries could sail confidently there. Any other sailor would soon find himself on the rocks. Even Gregory.

It was natural that Gentle noticed things earlier than his master. When he suddenly growled and jumped to his feet John caught him by the collar at once. Gentle never barked as he was a half-blood, a son of a wolf. The dog dragged John over the bushes to a part of the mountain meadow crammed with boulders. The boy couldn't understand what smell worried his dog until he heard voices in front of them. He made Gentle lie down knowing he wouldn't need to call twice should he need his friend. Then John crawled forward till the voices sounded as if right next to him. He knelt behind the boulder then and carefully peeped out.

There were three men in the clearing. John recognized two sons of Skjold the Merchant at once. They were standing with their backs turned to him, one holding a sword and another a drawn bow with a ready arrow.

The third, in a dark blue shirt, was leaning on a rock. There was a trickle of blood along his right thigh and the whole high boot on that leg was red. The man was holding a sword in his right hand and with the left he squeezed a cut along his left side, ugly stain widening around his fingers. His almost gray hair was wet with sweat but brown eyes were clear and focused. It was obvious that the sons of Skjold were afraid of him – even wounded, even bleeding, even although there were two of them against him alone.


	2. Chapter 2

John could see why the sons of Skjold were stalling for time. The stranger was like a dangerous beast for them – and you don't simply rush on an angry wild animal – you wait till it bleeds to death or try to shoot it from afar and only then skin it.

The bowman took aim and shot. The bleeding stranger moved his sword so quickly that John didn't even register the strike. He only heard the knock of the arrow's head on steel and saw the broken arrow fall.

"Don't waste all your arrows, son of Skjold," the man grinned dangerously, "you may run out of them and then will have to hurry home to get some more. Waiting is not my division".

John decided he'd had quite enough, thank you. He tried backing up carefully but a stone slipped from under his foot and the brothers turned in an instant. John froze in an uncomfortable position on all fours, staring at them. The stranger in a blue shirt shifted his weight and mocked, "No wonder you need so little to get the shit scared out of you. It runs in the family. Like father like sons."

The elder brother shooed John away like a naughty kitten and humiliation and hurt made the boy do something he could regret later. He jumped up to his feet and threw a stone at Skjold's son. John never missed, he felt a tiny spark of pride about it running away from the furious man. The Merchant's son was obviously intending to vent his anger on him.

Hearing heavy steps behind his back John realized he won't manage to run away and instead of trying to lose his follower in the rocks he changed the direction suddenly and flew across the clearing. The footfall was louder and louder as well as filthy swearing. John never called his dog, Gentle didn't need an order. He hurried past John growling and the boy got more worried about him at once. Hу turned just in time to see the Skjold's son raise the sword at Gentle and then suddenly grimace and fall on his face. With an arrow in his back.

Gentle flew right over the body. Then came back and thrust shining fangs in one of the sleeves, not to lose the face. John was having none of it, he dragged Gentle to the nearest boulder and hid behind it, burying his face in warm thick fur. He was shaking, teeth were clattering. Every time he thought about trying and returning back his eyes would stumble on the bloodied corpse of Skjold's son and dizzy sickness would make him clutch Gentle closer and wait a little more. Still he couldn't stay there forever so at last he gathered enough courage to crawl back out in the clearing.

The stranger in the blue shirt was sitting against the rock, the good leg curled awkwardly under his body. The second brother's body was cooling in front of the man. John realized that when the elder brother ran after him, the second must have looked away from the man in the blue shirt and the stranger got to him with his sword and then took the bow and shoot the second brother as well.

The man was stirred by the sound of John's steps, brown eyes looked wearily over the boy, lips moved as if he wanted to say something but only a thin stream of blood flowed down his chin. Then the stranger's eyes rolled and he sagged on a side. John quickly pressed his fingers to the sinewy throat, afraid that he would have to hide three bodies under the stones instead of two, but the blood still pulsed under the tanned skin. John was strong for his age but it was still difficult to drag the unconscious man away from the clearing to the cave where he spent the nights. There was no question of letting the man die. John felt this brave warrior deserved to live.

***

John had a lot of experience in healing hurt animals. He had a natural talent for it although nobody ever taught him. Other shepherds always brought lame sheep and dogs to him. Dealing with cuts and dislocations John felt himself useful and in the right place. He often wondered what could become of him if he could learn from some healer.

The stars were showing over the skerries one by one. The blue shirt washed carefully in a stream nearby was drying near the fire. John finished splinting the hurt leg of the still unconscious stranger and took a closer look at the arrow wound in the side. The splint was easy enough but this was different. The arrow was broken so close to skin that it was almost lost in the wound. John sighed in frustration after several unsuccessful attempts to drag the arrow out with his fingers. The fragment was sliding out of his fingers. The boy gave up trying to get a hold on it and pressed his lips to the wound instead. It was much easier to drag the rest of the arrow with his teeth. The stranger groaned but remained unconscious. His breathing improved and blood wasn't flowing from his mouth anymore.

John covered the man with a goat skin he usually slept under himself and went back to cover the bodies of dead men with stones. If you leave bodies lying uncovered the dead men could start walking around and scaring the cattle. John didn't take any of their valuables as well, he felt it wasn't right, but after long hesitation he took the bow and arrows. He hoped if he learnt to shoot well then maybe Gregory the Brave would take him on board his longship after all.

The night was especially long as John couldn't sleep from cold, having given away his own cover. He looked over the stranger, wondering who he was and where he had come from. He could tell the man was a Viking – iron-strong line of calluses along his hands gave that away. No wonder they couldn't kill him with one arrow.

Nearer to the dawn the boy gave up struggling to fall asleep in between of attempts to rekindle the fire and went to the edge of the Eagle Mountain instead. Heavy clouds were grumpily crawling from the rocks to the sea. The skerries were still humming after the storm that had come and gone a couple of days ago. John looked over the horizon and froze in surprise. On one of the islands bright fire was burning. This couldn't be a coincidence, John thought. And the Viking was wearing a blue shirt – the color of revenge, he must have gone to avenge someone and the people over on the island were waiting to pick him up.

John went back to the cave only after the noon, after he closed the cows in a fold. He noticed at once that the warrior was awake. Bread and cheese John had left by the fire were eaten and the man grabbed his sword when he saw someone enter the cave. Then he recognized John and squinted derisively, "So, you're still here, little coward. I thought you had gone to give me away to your master to earn a silver buckle on my belt."

"I am not a coward," John was deeply hurt by the remark, "and I would only get scolded for leaving the herd."

The man smiled crookedly, "I am an outlaw in the whole country, a lot of men would pay in silver to get my head."

John blushed furiously, "I wasn't there when they named you an outlaw. But I saw you fight those two. You are very courageous, still I don't think Gregory the Brave is like you."

"Why ever not?"

Brown eyes were dangerously tranquil. John would never dare to argue if he wouldn't be so sure he could outrun the wounded man. He licked his lips nervously before answering, "Gregory wouldn't need any help to kill those two."

The Viking moved to sit but pain in the chest made him lie back down. He grinned again, "I would whip you, you, lousy boy, but I wouldn't care to stand up."

In the evening the man said reluctantly, "Take a look out in the sea when it gets dark." John smirked, "If you mean the fire I have already thought it is burning for you. It is placed between the rocks so it can only be spotted from here, from the Eagle Mountain."

"The Eagle Mountain," the warrior whispered. He moved and started as pain shot through his hurt leg. "Show me where I can get down to the sea from here."

John took his time to think it over, "Nowhere."

"Quit it, the shepherd boy!" the man growled. John sighed wearily, "I only did it once, some winters ago. And it was in broad daylight, there was no rain and my leg didn't hurt."

The Viking clenched his teeth and moved the leg. And then again and again. John felt nothing would stop this man. He looked in the brown eyes that were suddenly softer. The man said, "I have to swim over to that island."

There were several good ropes hidden in the corner of the cave. John also took a small empty barrel, he felt the man would need support in cold water. The warrior understood why John had brought all of this immediately. He fumbled a bit unbuckling his belt and handed it to John, "Here, it's for you." John shook his head, "No need. Keep it or they won't believe you won over those two." Ashy twilight thickened around them and fire went up on the distant island.

John couldn't let the man climb down alone. The warrior moved slowly, often hanging only on his hands, seeking where to place his knee. John, above him, moved the rope from one shoulder to another, both burnt through skin with friction. When he saw the face of the warrior go white he knew he had to lean on the hurt leg again. The Eagle Mountain was silent and dark, only the black rocks gleamed like bared teeth far below.

Gentle was whining mournfully from above from time to time. It got dark and John had to find a foothold by touch. He tried desperately not to think about the stones and angry waves at the foot of the mountain. He barely registered the moment when the warrior said, "That's it."

John moved closer to the edge of the stone. The man nudged him, "get your hands in the water."

Salt water heals, John knew that. But he wasn't ready for heart-tearing pain that tore at his palms. When he came to his senses the Viking was lying near him, breathing with difficulty. John couldn't imagine how the man would get on with the second part of the journey, exhausted as he was. He couldn't tell how much time went by when the Viking finally stirred, "I have to go on, shepherd boy." John helped him tie the barrel to his chest and get into water. The man winced at the iciness around, "Certainly not a bath here." And off he went. John could still see his grey head for some time, a lighter spot against the dark waves, but then the warrior was lost in the shadows.

Only then did John realize that all was over. Something snapped in his heart and he shouted in despair, "Gregory! Gregory the Brave!" There was no answer. The Eagle Mountain loomed over John in haughty silence. Only unexpected barking rang from far above, Gentle barked for the first time in his life overcome with fear for his boy.

John slumped against the rock and wept. He didn't know exactly why he wept. Maybe because of the sharp pain in his torn hands. Maybe because he had to climb back yet. Maybe because he was all alone. He didn't know. He just knew no one would see his tears down there.


	3. Chapter 3

Skjold the Merchant was a skilled warrior, mighty as an ancient oak. People said when Gregory the Brave confronted him one day in his own yard, the Merchant didn’t waste time before starting the fight, though it didn’t really help him. Rumors went that when the Merchant was convulsing on the ground taking his last breaths Gregory said, “Hamish-with-Scar has a brother.” and left. They also said two sons of Skjold followed their father’s murderer. Their bodies were found by John, the shepherd’s boy, hidden in the rocks up on the Eagle Mountain. That was how people knew about the deaths of the Merchant and Merchant’s sons.

They took the expensive bow away from John, of course, but a kind elderly slave who knew how to work with wood carved a simpler one for the boy and showed him how to make arrows. John practiced away all the next summer with no witnesses to his growing skill other than the silent Eagle Mountain and faithful Gentle. Arrows obeyed the boy, it seemed. They did everything he wanted them to.

Spring was late the year after that. When the sun at last became warm and icicles started to cry John began spending more time outside, eager to flex his muscles after the severe frosty days spent in the smoky longhouse. On that day he was resting however, sitting against the fence on a chunk of wood. A light smile was playing on his lips as he watched Gentle lazying on his back in a spot of sunlight close nearby. The wolfhound was so content he didn’t even move when a crystal drop of water from under the roof splashed on his furry belly. John chuckled at that and then looked at the road again. He was curious; he knew his master had purchased several new slaves and today they would be brought in. In a close-knit household like theirs every new person was a breath of fresh air. And John was bored enough to be desperate for something, anything new. Still, he couldn’t even imagine how fully Gods would grant his wish.

He expected to see several grim people in between of two guards of his master who herded the slaves like cattle. What he hadn’t expected at all was to see two more guards carrying the limp body of another slave. John couldn’t see the face because long dirty curls were falling on it but he realized this was a young man, barely older than him, very tall and thin, with skin so pale it barely registered against the snow. Long hair in combination with slave’s collar could only mean the man was taken a prisoner and sold as a slave very recently. All slaves wore their hair short-cropped, John automatically touched his sandy crown with that thought, watching springy dark locks of the stranger.

A long bag was secured across the back of the man. It seemed something extremely important was hidden inside as when the guards threw the young man across the threshold in the barn that served as slaves’ sleeping place, John noticed his hand dart to the strap of the bag once it was released from guard’s grip. He also noticed the hand was shaking, probably from pain or exhaustion, or both. He jumped to his feet.

“Let me see to his injuries,” he told one of the guards, “master won’t be pleased if his new slave dies, will he?” The guards waved him off, already past caring. John approached the man warily but the stranger was already unconscious, obviously worn out with the last effort, one hand still gripping the bag spasmodically. John moved the surprisingly light body on his own thin straw bed, told Gentle to stay and rushed away to get some water and a clean cloth. He could see bruises and abrasions starting on thin wrists of the stranger and crawling up under his plain shirt.

When he got back, he finally took some time to properly look at the young man’s face. It was exotic for this land, thin and finely chiseled, with high cheekbones and large eyes with unbelievably long lashes. John washed away dry blood from split plump lower lip and surprised himself with relief he felt when he made sure the straight neat nose wasn’t broken. There were bruises and abrasions all over thin body but none promised any permanent damage as far as John could see. He dressed some of the most severe ones just in case and tried to get the man drink a bit of water as he felt fever was crawling in overly hot skin. He wondered what was in the bag but when he tried to pull long slender fingers off its strap the man thrashed and moaned restlessly so John gave it up.

Their master was pleased with John’s help and ordered him to stay near the stranger the next day instead of doing his chores. John hoped he would mention the name of the new slave but the master never did.

Not having to rise early for work John allowed himself a luxury of staying in bed a little longer. He had to make a new straw bed for himself after all, which took some of the night. The warm back of Gentle was a perfect pillow, only other shepherds could boast of such. When John heard echoes of heated argument with half an ear and a hoarse voice asked in a whisper what that was, he mumbled sleepily, “Today’s the vernal equinox.”

“So?” the voice wasn’t impressed. John blinked several times to wake up completely and sat up meeting the gaze of bright grey eyes. He slowly gathered his wits around and replied, “Old Thorgrim’s heirs always gather at his farm on the day of vernal equinox.” The young man lifted himself, leaning on the wall for support. Curiosity in his eyes was burning bright. John followed the man outside. Behind a low fence near the longhouse of their neighbor, Thorgrim’s son, five angry men were eagerly participating in a shouting contest. One of them was waving a flat round stone around.

“What’s that he is holding?” the man asked, squinting at the group of heirs. John watched him from head to toes before answering, checking the way the man held himself and finding that most of the pain and the fever were clearly gone. When the curly slave turned to John impatiently, he sighed and calmly related, “Old Thorgrim was a warrior in his youth. A hireling, to be exact. They say he brought a large jewel from his travels, something you could buy half this island for. He was stingy beyond imagining, even brought his herd to the pastures himself in summer not to waste food on slaves. And when he died he left his two sons and three younger brothers a stone with a single rune. He said only that it would show them the way. He died on this day five years ago and ever since they gather here, try to find the jewel and argue about where it can be hidden. The eldest son got the farm, well, he spaded it over and across but found nothing. Now he gets great crops by the way.” John smirked at that and found that the stranger was smiling back. He also found that even the slave’s collar didn’t diminish the imperial dignity the man was holding himself with.

“What’s your name anyway?” John risked. “Sherlock,” the reply was, followed by a defiant look from under the curls. John shrugged, it’s not like his name was anywhere usual for the islands. His mother gave it to him before she died so he cherished it as his only heritage.

While John plunged in a short bout of recollections, Sherlock’s thoughts returned to heirs of Thorgrim. He murmured, “I wish I could see the runestone.” John awoke to reality, “No need, actually.” He picked up a thin stick and carefully drew a single rune on the crust of a patch of thawed snow. “Teiwaz,” he proudly announced. He liked this rune, it looked like one of the arrows so dear to his heart.     

Sherlock took one glance at the rune, then looked back at the still arguing heirs. “Did Thorgrim spend a lot of time at his farm?” John frowned, “Actually he preferred the mountain meadows. He always was the first to get his herd up there in spring and the last to return, often when snow had already fallen.” Sherlock flashed a predatory smile at the mountains, “So an incredibly miserly man risks his cattle only to spend more time away from the farm and yet his heirs think he hid his jewel there?”

John felt his jaw drop, “That’s brilliant,” he breathed. Sherlock looked surprised but pleased with his involuntary praise, “People don’t usually say that when I try to understand the way things work.”

“And what do they usually say?” John smiled wider. Sherlock sniffed, “Piss off.” Both chuckled.

Sherlock adjusted the strap on his shoulder and took a few careful steps towards the fence. It seemed that the night’s rest replenished his strength well enough. He looked as if he was itching to solve the riddle of the jewel completely. John surprised himself by offering, “The meadow where Thorgrim used to spend all his time is at the end of the path which is already passable enough. We could go and take a look… if you know what to look for.” Sherlock gave him a clear don’t-be-stupid look, “Of course I do.”

A narrow mountain path was winding along the snowy ridges, in between snow had melted low enough for a passing man not to sink up to the knees. At first John kept glancing at Sherlock worriedly, but the long-limbed man seemed to have forgotten all about his injuries due to the excitement. John had never met anyone who could be as unusual and amazing as Sherlock. One morning spent with him seemed the most exciting time of his life – after the day spent with Gregory the Brave, of course. He didn’t even care they both could get punished for leaving the household without a permission – Sherlock’s enthusiasm was highly contagious.

John stopped at a higher point of the path where the descent to the meadow began. Sherlock looked over his shoulder without difficulty, his lips moved as if he was calculating something. Then he shoved John from the path unceremoniously and strode to the far end of the meadow overlooking the sea. And John suddenly realized what he was looking at. Several large stones were strategically placed all over the meadow. Someone wise enough to look from a position above would see they made a rough arrow with the tip towards the sea. John cursed under his breath and ran after Sherlock who was already leaning his scanty weight into the boulder at the tip of the imaginary arrow. Together they managed to lift it and roll a bit aside. Sherlock scraped the uncovered ground with the toe of his threadbare boot. Something glinted. 

John felt his breath catch in his throat. He was bewildered but not by finding an incredibly expensive thing but by this absolutely extraordinary man who was suddenly brought in John’s small boring world by the winds of fate. And to think John still knew practically nothing about him, about who he was or how he ended up a slave.

Sherlock flipped a richly green stone carelessly. “Do you want to keep it?” he asked John. The boy choked indignantly, “I would never take something that doesn’t belong to me.” Unearthly grey eyes measured him from head to toes, Sherlock’s face twisted into strange ambiguous expression but then he relaxed and tossed the stone to John, “Well neither would I.” They started the slow ascent back to the mountain path. Gentle was circling the young men splashing thawed snow around with puppy-like enthusiasm. The Eagle Mountain kept approvingly quiet.

Sherlock said, “He must have been very strong, moving around the stones year upon year.” “He was,” John agreed, “I remember he could lift a bull just for fun. Still I guess he could have spent more of his time raising his sons as better men instead of hiding his jewel.” The heavy stone was weighing John’s pouch down. Sherlock shrugged, “Could be his last attempt to make them use their wits.”

“Could be a message as well,” John mused, “The Teiwaz rune means ‘warrior’. They should have fought for their heritage – even though this was supposed to be the battle of minds, not bodies. They shouldn’t have simply been sitting there for years and arguing with each other.”

Sherlock stopped and grinned at him with such force that it caught John’s breath, “Indeed”.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the verse, it's a not a real song, just something that came to my mind

The secret of Sherlock’s shoulder bag was revealed to John that same evening. The thick reliable backpack held an elegantly curved lyre. The wood was polished with hands of generations of skalds. John assumed that Sherlock must have been a skald’s apprentice before he was taken as a prisoner but when their owner ordered his curly friend to play it became obvious that Sherlock, though young, was an incredibly skillful skald himself already.

He never sang, however. Their master was furious, Sherlock got beaten again, and again. But no matter how hard he was punished, he never sang. He would play amazingly beautiful melodies, his lyre placed firmly on one knee while long masterful fingers were caressing the strings, but full lips always remained pressed tightly together and his eyes were incredibly sad as if he was killing himself with his own music. After the third or fourth beating John even toyed with an idea to ask his friend to sing as a favour to himself. It’s not that John was tired of patching up the translucent pale skin that was black and blue most of the time. He just thought it terribly unfair to treat his unbelievably talented friend in such a way. But at the same time he believed he understood why Sherlock couldn’t sing – it was for the same reason some birds don’t sing in cages.

Sherlock wasn’t only talented as a musician. He noticed things other people missed by mile as he successfully proved by finding Thorgrim’s heritage. It didn’t do any good for the heirs, of course, who ended up killing each other over the stone. Rumors of it spread across the island very quickly and from time to time people started to come and ask for Sherlock’s help with finding lost or stolen things. That mollified their owner a little but not enough for him to stop thrashing Sherlock altogether.

Summer came and John went to the mountain meadows with the herd. He thought he wouldn’t see Sherlock again till the frosts settled. However several days later he found an unexpectedly fresh loaf of bread on a stone near his cave. He even suspected one of the dairy maids who seemed to have a crush on him at first. When a couple of days later a new fresh loaf appeared on a flat stone John decided to crack this mystery. As he needed to be away from the cave on the mornings, taking care of his cows, he ordered Gentle to stay and guard the cave entrance. For two days John would return to a noticeably bored of sitting on the same spot dog. On the third noon John heard soft sounds when he was nearing the cave as if the wind was rippling the strings of a lonely lyre with the blades of grass. He crept closer, already sure of what he would see but wishing not to disturb Sherlock’s playing. When he stepped around the stone wall shooting upwards to the very top of the Eagle Mountain he saw an apologetically waving his tail Gentle who was holding Sherlock’s trouser leg in his teeth. The curly skald was sitting on a flat rock, a small package wrapped in a clean cloth was lying nearby. What stopped John from showing himself at once was the fact that Sherlock was not only playing, he was singing. Rich low baritone was a little hoarse from disuse but strong and warm like a summer breeze.

 

 

Through the mists of cold seas

Dragon longships will go.

Steady hands never miss

Holding deftly the bow.

 

Gods will smile overhead

Though blood rivers will flow.

Praise the living and dead

As together we row.

 

We will keep on the fight

Salty waves will us mourn

But through darkness and light

Dragon ships will go on.

 

John froze in place forgetting what he meant to do. He felt cradled by the strong and confident melody, wrapped in rich folds of Sherlock’s voice. He could feel the salty taste of waves on his lips, could see warriors leaning on the oars as one, brothers of hard work and glorious battles. Something clenched mightily in his chest, making him dizzy with longing. He realized with certainty he would use any chance the fate would provide to get to the Vikings ship and become one of them. John also found himself several steps closer to the clearing, staring right into the bluish depths of Sherlock’s eyes. The skald was smiling, his fingers moving slower and slower across the clearly sounding strings.

“You must have been there,” John breathed out, “on board of a drakkar, with the Vikings. You were no wandering skald, you went into battles.”

Sherlock sighed, fingers jerking suddenly, causing his lyre to weep. Gentle whimpered in sympathy through the still clenched teeth. It got John out of stupor at last, he whistled and the relieved dog skipped to him merrily. The skald put the instrument into the backpack again and secured the straps. John was watching him with slight amusement that surprised himself.

“Thanks for the bread,” he recollected suddenly. Sherlock hemmed under his nose, “Whatever, it’s terribly boring down there.” John nodded slowly, playing along. However coy Sherlock acted, he still could see his friend’s true care behind the seeming nonchalance.

Sherlock kept coming almost every day, sometimes empty-handed, other times carrying some simple but fresh food that he coaxed out of the cooks, no doubt batting his impossible eyelashes at them, John thought. The young skald sang to the shepherd boy from time to time, each song captivating and at the same time breaking John’s heart a little. He could see Sherlock still wasn’t singing for their owner. Bruises and abrasions were never completely healed between two fits of master’s anger. Sherlock was playing his lyre in the master’s hall but the man wasn’t used to getting only half of what he paid for, so beatings were coming more and more often. Nevertheless it seemed only John suffered more because of that. Sherlock smirked at his body, deigning it too base to pay his attention to pain. He only snorted in derision when John tutted over his wounds.

It was a clear and breezy morning at the end of summer when John woke up with strange apprehension. He didn’t see Sherlock for two days in a row and was starting to miss his friend and worry about the state he would find him in, when Sherlock would finally show up. The boy who was quickly becoming a man stretched his muscles lazily and went to the edge of the meadow to take a look at the bay as usual. He kept waiting for something that never happened but this morning was clearly different.

Two battleships were slowly gliding towards the shore where the settlement stood. John rubbed the remnants of sleep off from the corners of his eyes and felt giddy with excitement. Everyone knew these red and white sails were Gregory the Brave’s trademark. John could see people from most homesteads running away from the shore with hastily packed things, thin trickles of scared freeholders and slaves mixing in a wider stream of refugees clearly visible from above. He knew the shepherds would remain in the mountains and hide as well. He didn’t intend to do any such thing.

John fished his bow and arrows from an inconspicuous niche in the cave wall, whistled for Gentle and began his descent into the valley.

 

* * *

 

 

The longhouse was full of laughing and talking warriors. Ale was foaming in mugs and fists were slamming on the table, beating the time of a merry song. The Vikings didn’t exactly maraude the village, they simply imposed themselves as unexpected guests. They never took more than they could eat and drink. Usually while the house owners were cowardly hiding in the forest.

No one paid real attention to John as he loitered about a bit. He was looking for Sherlock but also listening to bits of conversation here and there. It seemed one of the ships was indeed led by Gregory the Brave while the captain of the other was his brother-in-arms, Olaf, son of Anders.

Although several braver slaves still remained on the premises, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John finally decided there was no use in procrastinating, ordered Gentle to stay by the barn and, gathering his will, barged awkwardly into the smoky hall of the longhouse.

His hopes to see Gregory there at once were futile. Only one man of a rather ratlike appearance was sitting at the head of the table. The guards by the door tried to stop John rather lazily but the boy darted past them and stopped in front of Anderson.

“And what do you want, boy?” Anderson scowled unpleasantly. John tried not to show his disappointment, “I came to ask Gregory the Brave to take me on board his ship. I am strong and I am a good archer. I can be useful.”

Merry laughter prevented him from saying anything else. Anderson was laughing as well, wiggling heavy eyebrows. John bit his lower lip not to whine in distress, but he couldn’t stop his ears reddening from embarrassment. Still he tried to be calm and reasonable, “Test me, if you don’t believe I can shoot well.”

“Why not,” Anderson smirked, “Bring some scarecrow for the boy to show off at.” The laughing guards left. Seconds were creeping past endlessly. John fought with himself, breathing carefully, fingers clutching at his bow. Heart fluttered desperately in his chest when the guards dragged a long thin man into the hall. John tasted blood in his mouth when his jaws tightened convulsively but he never moved. Sherlock was barely conscious, it seemed, he was hanging on the guards heavily, and his backpack for once wasn’t with him. John noticed a swollen eye and realized his friend must have gotten himself another beating the night before. 

John pulled three arrows from his quiver without haste. He stuck two of them in the earth floor near his foot and drew the bow with the third. The point of the arrow looked in Sherlock’s heavy-lidded eyes he couldn't keep open. Then John suddenly turned around, the arrow aimed right at Anderson, “I didn’t think Vikings’ chieftains are cowards, playing with people’s lives in a low way like that. Would you, son of Anders, like to be a scarecrow for me to test my skills on?”

Anderson got paler but he was a warrior after all. He waved off the men who stepped forward to get to John and sat more comfortably, “Get on with it then, boy,” he hissed.

John thought it was rather easy, actually. Trying to catch one arrow in flight with another was difficult, but long months of training got him there eventually. In this darkened hall he never hesitated before quickly releasing three arrows one by one. The silence thickened and then exploded in a roar. The warriors circled John, clapping him on the back approvingly. The Vikings loved skilled men.

Anderson didn’t move, he couldn’t, not if he wanted to remain unscathed. Two arrows were stuck in the wall on both sides of his neck, so close that there was not an inch for him to move either left or right, and the third arrow was trembling atop his head, having cut a strand of his hair.

“Well, kid,” Anderson finally laughed too, “you seem to be true to your word.” He raised his hand and dragged one of the arrows from the wall with effort. A thin stream of blood rushed down his throat but the chieftain didn’t pay any attention to it. He stood up and strode towards John, “I would like to have such a good archer on my battleship.”

John felt an enormous weight drop from his shoulders and bring open a floodgate to all the emotions he had been stifling: anger, fear, humiliation.  Tears stung his eyes when he turned away from Anderson and shuffled to Sherlock, who finally managed to stand on his own. “And I don’t want to be on board a ship with someone who tries to make people shoot at the defenseless.” He grabbed his friend’s wrist and dragged him to the door. He only made a few steps when the door swung open and Gregory the Brave stepped in, followed by a tall stranger with an aquiline profile, dressed in a priest’s cloak. Warm brown eyes of Gregory engulfed John with an intensity he couldn’t expect. The warrior hugged John, crushing him against his broad chest, “I went to the Eagle Mountain, searched the cave and meadows, where were you, shepherd boy? I haven't even asked what your name is.”

John let go of Sherlock’s wrist and finally relaxed, feeling hot tears stream down his cheeks onto Gregory’s flaxen shirt. As if in a dream, afraid to move so that not to wake up, he heard the red-haired priest say to heavily breathing Sherlock, “I was deeply concerned, brother dear.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Time flew quickly by and it dragged drastic changes along. Only yesterday it seemed Gregory the Brave had been a convicted criminal in all the settlements along the Northern coast and then the konung was dead and his son, Harald, issued a full pardon for the Viking chieftain. He invited Gregory to his stronghold on one of the Western isles. It was the middle of winter and Gregory’s ships were embedded in ice till spring. But Gregory the Brave wasn’t the one to sit and wait when his konung asked for his presence. Even the great amount of floating ice mountains typical for this time of year couldn’t scare him into patience. His warriors yielded strong axes till the ships were free and John, the chieftain’s adopted son, was among them. He was known as the Archer by then.

 

On the way to the capital two proud ships stopped at a small half-abandoned island to replenish water supplies. Once Tord, called the Goat for his long beard, had lived there but Gregory the Brave killed him in a fight – for that Gregory was sentenced to death by the previous konung. But Gregory held nothing against the current owners of the island.

Most of the warriors went ashore to stretch their legs but John lingered aboard, leaning against the rails and watching the small island drowning in chilly mists. Gentle was busily sniffing around, he turned out to be quite a sea dog, noticeably enjoying the swaying deck and salty splashes. Sherlock appeared soundlessly behind John’s shoulder, cocked his curly head thoughtfully to one side surveying the silent village and the slick wooden pier. “I knew one day we would return to this island,” he said quietly. John turned his head slightly to take in the unusual timidity of his friend. Dizzying feeling of anticipation swept over him, the one he always felt when his friend was about to uncover another mystery and take him along the detailed path as to how he did it. He slowly drowned in Sherlock’s languishing eyes. “Let me tell you a story, John, about something that happened eighteen years ago.”

 

_It was a severe winter, winds were furious and ice mountains roamed the grey sea. Only those who were really desperate dared to sail, or those whose greed was stronger than reason. Skjold the Merchant was among them. He was returning home only then because he couldn’t tear himself from the market in the capital earlier, waited on and on to get more profit._

_When Skjold made a stop at one of the southern capes they brought a young girl to him, Mary. She wanted to get to one of the larger northern settlements from where she planned to get on a ship to Iceland, where her relatives moved. Skjold grinned unpleasantly, “I will take you on my ship, if you have two silver marks.” Mary paled, “But that’s all I’ve got.” Skjold shrugged indifferently and Mary had no choice. No more ships would sail north that year, she knew that._

_Skjold showed Mary a place at one of the benches, near a gloomy man with his hat pulled low over his ears. The man gave her just one heavy look but Mary shivered all over. She felt something would happen for sure if that man looked at her again, something very good or very bad, she didn’t know but there was no doubt about that and that scared her._

_A young red-haired priest of Odin was sitting on another bench across the aisle. He was cradling his small brother in his arms. The little boy was no more than four, he was feverish and coughed dreadfully thus occupying all of his brother’s attention. But the pale light eyes of the boy were clear and intense and he was noticing everything around._

_At night Mary with the other passengers lay down to sleep right on the deck between the benches. Mary had a blanket but still was terribly cold and afraid to move lest to disturb her gloomy neighbor. Through tiny shreds of sleep she suddenly felt glorious warmth surround her. Kind dreams carried her away that night._

_In the morning as soon as the sun had risen Mary woke up. A warm cloak was draped over her blanket. The man in the hat was already on the bench again. He was frowning and touching his right side gingerly._

_Mary brought the cloak back to him, “Thank you.” He didn’t even turn his head, “Keep it.” And that was how Mary first heard his voice. She tried to argue, “But what about you?” He snapped, “I said keep it,” it was obvious he wasn’t used to objections._

_Mary was desperate to thank him but didn’t know how. So she kept silent and for the next two nights she was warm, sleeping under the stranger’s cloak. Nobody knew his name, so they called him Odd. He allowed people to call him that. Mary hadn’t spoken another word to him nor he to her. And then the storm came._

 

“But you were so small, Sherlock,” John whispered, “How could you know what she was thinking about?” Sherlock smiled tentatively, “I wouldn’t grow up to be a skald if I couldn’t see into people from the very childhood. I noticed every little detail for as long as I remember myself. And I noticed then they fell in love with each other as soon as their eyes had met.”

Gregory appeared on the deck with Sherlock’s red-haired brother, Mycroft. They stopped not far from two friends.  

 

_The people on the ship saw the storm coming. The clouds were lowering more and more and then a dark line rushed along the waves. Somber sky flattened over the tempestuous sea and the winds howled in the rigging like a pack of wolves. Odd came to Skjold the Merchant and suggested in a low voice, “Give the order to pull up the sail, Merchant.” He rarely spoke without reason and other passengers thought he was right. But the Merchant spat, “You’re not the captain of this ship.” Odd didn’t reply._

_Another gust of wind almost tore the mast off. The storm was raging on. Soon it became obvious Skjold was not only a lousy seaman himself as he didn’t really know how to manage the rudder in the storm, but his greed also showed in the ship’s poor maintenance. Water was seeping through the seams that were poorly caulked. When the Merchant held the ship with its side against the wave again and people were soaked through Odd stood up and shoved him off the steering seat at the stern. His orders were clear and obviously right. The ship moved easier and stopped taking in more water. Mary led the women to the hold to bail out the water that had gathered there. It was dreadfully cold, her feet and hands were numb from icy splashes. But the level of water in the hold stopped rising and hope appeared._

_Day and night through they had been fighting with the storm. Odd was steering the ship, immovable and confident. At some point wind tore the hat off his head and a long scar came out, snaking across his forehead to the left brow. Mary didn’t have time to turn around and look at him, but if she did she would have thought that she was right to think he was special._

_Skjold the Merchant who had to watch Odd commanding his ship sitting at his feet – he tied himself to the seat and couldn’t crawl away – looked at the scar carefully. And paid attention to the way Odd was holding the rudder. And he said nothing at all._

_By the dawn they noticed a small island, which inhabitants already saw the struggling ship. The fires were lit along the sandy shore. Odd steered the ship cleverly, the oarsmen plied the oars vigorously and the ship was finally safely ashore._

_A tall bearded man came to Odd, mistaking him for the ship captain, “I am Tord, the owner of this island and people call me the Goat. My house is close by and the hearth is already warm.”_

_Skjold rushed forward to introduce himself. People were climbing off the ship. Mary, still grasping a small bucket, tried to get up – and couldn’t. Her body was so cold it refused to move. She started crying, thinking she would be left behind, alone. But then Odd looked in the hold, saw her and carried her ashore in his arms._

“I know what happened next,” Gregory the Brave said, stepping closer. Sherlock pierced him with silvery stare and shook his head, “You weren’t there, Gregory, but I was. You don’t know everything. Let me tell this story.”

 

_The passengers were dried off, fed and put to sleep in the barn where large heaps of fragrant hay were kept. Mary’s hands and feet warmed up and were aching excruciatingly. She tossed and turned, falling in and out of heavy sleep. In the middle of the night the door opened soundlessly and Tord entered with Skjold at his heels. The Merchant held a small torch. Mary froze, her throat squeezed by the icy fingers of fear. For some moments Skjold kept looking around, then nudged Tord, moved a finger across his forehead and pointed in one of the corners. Tord looked where the Merchant was pointing and nodded. Then the men left as quietly as they came._

_For a long time Mary was afraid to move. Her heart was thumping loudly and ache in her feet receded somehow. Or maybe she just forgot about them. At last she stood up and crept to the corner where Skjold had been pointing. She knew whom she would find there._

_Odd seemed to be fast asleep but when she touched her shoulder his iron fingers gripped her wrist. She barely kept from crying out loud but the grip loosened at once. “It’s you,” he whispered groggily. Mary kneeled in the hay, her legs suddenly giving way. He sat up and took her by the hand, then slowly embraced her around the shoulders. Unwelcome tears crawled down her cheeks. There was nothing she wanted more than to stay in his arms forever._

_“I came to wake you up,” she whispered, “Skjold showed you to Tord, the Goat. I fear for you, Odd.” He nodded, then, after some hesitation said, “It’s not my real name. I was named Hamish, but people call me Hamish-with-Scar because of my forehead mark. I killed two people of konung in a fight they started, they were drunk. I was injured and spent some time hiding. Now I am trying to go home.”_

_Mary thought that perhaps Skjold didn’t mean any harm. Maybe he even showed Hamish-with-Scar to the island owner so that he could show due honor to the Viking chieftain. She wanted to believe in that, “Maybe it will all be fine.”_

_Hamish nodded, “Perhaps.” His fingers rubbed tiny circles across her shoulder, “I wish I had better fortune. I wouldn’t let you go to Iceland from here were it in my power.”_

_Mary felt despair consuming her like impenetrable darkness of the northern nights. She realized Hamish didn’t hope to see his home again. And she whispered so quietly that he barely heard, “Your misfortune won’t be as great if a son remains…”_

_In the morning Skjold came to find Hamish lying with his eyes wide open. The Merchant whispered, “The sea has calmed, could you help us to move the ship to the pier? You managed it so skillfully.” Hamish rose to follow him, but returned from the door, saying he forgot his gloves. Skjold promised to wait outside._

_It was then that a painfully thin boy whose cough had prevented him from sleep all night rolled off a bench leaving his exhausted brother asleep there. He grabbed Hamish’s trouser leg with his tiny fingers, “Don’t go, that man is no good.” Hamish gently patted the tousled dark curls, carefully pried the boy’s fingers off his clothes and left the barn. Mary was soundly asleep under a warm cloak._

_In the yard Hamish saw Tord and Skjold and two dozen Tord’ men, all armed as if they were going into the battle. Hamish laughed in their faces, “So that is your hospitality, Tord. I thought I was a guest of yours.” He was unarmed, his sword left where konung’s people wounded him._

_“You, the Merchant, probably fight as skillfully as steer the ship. You should have lured me further away, what if your own seamen wake up and stand up for me?” And then he added, “My younger brother is waiting for me at home. He is already known for his bravery and his name is Gregory. Remember his name, Tord, and you, Skjold, as well.”_

_People said that then he tore a battle axe from the hands of one of the men standing closer to him and attacked at once._

_The little boy woke up his brother and made him alarm the seamen. Many of them indeed took their swords and rushed to help Hamish. They thought it unfair to murder a man who saved them all at sea. Even though he was an outlaw._

_They didn’t find anyone in the yard and rushed to the pier where voices were heard. But there was no need to rush. Hamish-with-Scar was lying on the snow covering the logs of the pier and his blood was mixing with the sea water. His attackers were standing around but four of them were missing and would never be able to stand up again._

_Hamish recognized Mary when she pushed away one of the armed men and knelt at his side. He said, “If there will be a son, call him John.”_

 

Gregory tried to clear his throat but when his voice came it still sounded strangled, “John is our father’s name.”

Solemn looking Mycroft lowered his head, “I kept wondering why he didn’t call the rest of us for help. And then I realized we were all worn out after the storm, none of us real warriors. He didn’t want many people to die when only his life was requested. And he wanted Mary to get home safely.”

 

“How did they look like?” John asked gravely, “Him and … my mother.”

Sherlock entwined his fingers thoughtfully, “I was very small at the time but I remember they both seemed incredibly beautiful.” Behind their backs Gregory sighed and closed his eyes wearily.

John went down to the pier in silence, his back unnaturally straight, Gentle was trotting along. Gregory followed them with his eyes.

John sat on the edge of a cold beam, Gentle squeezed his head under his friend’s arm and the boy and his dog stared at the sea. Nothing changed around, the waves were still grey and sullen, the sky still hostile and heavy with unshed snow. Eighteen years ago his father was lying here dead and his mother was crying over him. Or maybe she wasn’t crying but no one would have dared to look her in the eye. She couldn’t know that Skjold wouldn’t get any reward for killing Hamish and, venting his anger on her, would sell her as a slave to his neighbor. In slavery she would give birth to her son and would call him John. And would die young before she had time to tell him anything about his father.

 

“Is this really true, Sherlock?” Gregory asked gloomily, “I’ve been talking to a lot of people about what happened here, including your brother, Mycroft.” The lanky skald rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly, “You asked people about your brother’s death not about his love. And Mycroft wouldn’t notice any such thing anyway, feelings, especially of other people, were never grand enough to deserve his attention.”

The red-haired priest snorted in disdain but Sherlock was already on the pier. He lingered a moment, unsure, then shook his curly mane and sat closer to John. Slowly, tenderly, it started snowing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments! They are very welcome and keep me warm at night.


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